Category Archives: Traditional Witchcraft

Di Inferi – The Gods Below: Of Contact, Dream and Memory

Posted by Sarah-Jayne Farrer on

“The end comes… And then drums, drums in the deep…
I wonder what that means… They are coming” – JRR Tolkien

The Indwelling Fire

The drums reverberate through the Land. A steady pulse surges up through the layers of trodden mud and Sun-baked bricks, rising up through the levels of the place where ‘the heavens and the underworld mingle’, and through bare, un-sandaled feet. Felt within the soul. Setting the body a-shudder. The torch’s descent along the darkened passageways and cavernous vaulted halls has been made. The clean clothes have been removed; the fresh scent has no place here. To the accompaniment of rustling feathers, the pit has been filled, the herbs scattered and the wine spilt. The Shadowy Ones have been called forth. Our Ancestors who lay beneath the loam, speak. Speak in vision and dream. Their language cannot be learned, but it is felt. Felt in our bones and in our blood; within our soul. What made them, made us. We are created from the dirt beneath our feet, and we shall return to it. We have done so before, we will do so again. Some patterns were meant to be repeated. Age after age, aeon after aeon, until the end of time itself.

The Gods of the Deep return at times to join with their kin in convocation, to relive the old rites, on the desolate, wind-wracked beaches, deep within dank caverns, at the midnight crossroads, upon the damp disturbed earth; old, forgotten places. It’s a reclaiming of souls that have walked this familiar path before, a chaining to Oaths that were made millennia ago; unfinished business. A reconnection of lost souls, that have been fighting their way back together, perhaps since time began. Memories drift back through the ether; our own lost memories, ancestral memories, memories belonging to others. The blood remembers. The soul never forgets.

When age fell upon the world, and wonder went out of the minds of men; when grey cities reared to smoky skies tall towers grim and ugly, in whose shadow none might dream of the Sun or of Spring’s flowering meads; when learning stripped the Earth of her mantle of beauty and poets sang no more of twisted phantoms seen with bleared and inward looking eyes; when these things had come to pass, and childish hopes had gone forever, there was a man who traveled out of life on a quest into spaces whither the world’s dreams had fled.

Di Inferi

We may find ourselves walking paths we could never have anticipated in our wildest of dreams, and embarking on a journey which requires us to take a long hard look at our preconceptions and beliefs, which are more a result of years of social and religious conditioning than anything else. What may seem blasphemous to some, we will find familiar and right, comforting to a certain extent, as we have been here before; long before the dogma of a monotheistic age took hold of our consciousness. How deep this conditioning runs. Morals and standards of right and wrong, good and evil have been metered by this system for hundreds and hundreds of years. The Shadowy Ones are the driving force behind the antinomian impulses that lead us on the dark alchemical path of evolution towards the within; the pursuit of self-salvation. They are the fierce winds of change that lead us away from the passive acceptance of our social norms, imposed order, inherited misconceptions and conditioning, which can lead to stagnation in our spiritual lives. Tamed and repressed we have become; a slave to our own minds. Here we are longing for harmony and pining for freedom, but freedom always comes at a price. How much are you willing to pay? How far are you willing to travel? How deep can you go? How much work are you willing to put in to see your return come to fruition?

The Divine Madness. The Overshadowing. The Indwellers. The Ensnaring. The Singing of the Muses. Try as we may, we cannot ever attempt to fully describe the feeling we get when standing in the shadow of Those we learn from, when realizations filter down to us that are deeper than our own thoughts, or smack us clear in the face as the case may be. The feeling of knowing that surpasses a gut feeling or even mere intuition – a complete certainty that may be clarified only through ongoing research and study, or by the reports of others who have experienced the same thing (having your UPG shared with another is truly a wonderful thing) – which has entered our consciousness, independently, by other means. Some of these things may never be clarified at all, but after a while a trust is built, the feeling of knowing will be easily distinguishable from idle thoughts and fancies. It comes from somewhere deeper. An opening inward is needed. Inward and beyond. Via Sinistra. Down and deep. Into the dark hidden earth, beneath the raging waves.

Their presence is heralded by certain feelings, this may change from person to person (or contact to contact), and as you journey along your path you’ll come to recognize the distinct emotions, physical feelings, even certain sounds or smells (that have no real way of being there) that They bring when They are around. They are the voices echoing, unrecognizable and indistinguishable, on the edges of sleep. They appear in fleeting, earthless moments, as hungry ghosts and specters, and move as They once did, with agendas of their own, on old familiar ground, in and out of time. Is it the pulse of the present, or the cold scroll of Time recoiling in on itself, that causes the dead years to once again obtain a voice?

Of the name and abode of this man little is written, for they were of the waking world only; yet it is said that both were obscure. It is enough to say that he dwelt in a city of high walls where sterile twilight reigned, that he toiled all day among shadow and turmoil, coming home at evening to a room whose one window opened not to open fields and groves, but on to a dim court where other windows stared in dull despair. From that casement one might see only walls and windows, except sometimes when one leaned so far out and peered at the small stars that passed. And because mere walls and windows must soon drive a man to madness who dreams and reads much, the dweller in that room used night after night to lean out and peer aloft to glimpse some fragment of things beyond the waking world and the tall cities.

Via Sinistra

Contact doesn’t have to be passed along, or inherited in unbroken lines of tradition, physical interaction is not always needed. We all know that whatever we do, esoterically, sends out unseen ripples for unseen eyes. Those ripples run swift in widening darkened rings, as if over gooseflesh waters, to where They wait and watch for recognizable tremors; though the drowned stones lie still. If you have been ensnared by Them before, They will remember. You stand out like a bright beacon in the gloom; something for Them to set their bearings by. Their memory is eternal, and can be traced back to a time before time, They were part of the primordial soup from which we arose. Only part, as a balance must always be struck. The quick and the dead move in, their shapes flicker in the shadows, their voices that throng the mind sing now at a maddening pitch; there are times when the mundane world seems to have no substance and They are most tangible. Lost in a reverie and pulled into waking dream, we wander in a half-trance. Lost. Or maybe finally found again.

Some of us will assign a deity to Them in order to make head or tail of the situations we find ourselves in, especially if they talk in certain symbols. Many of you that have read my previous blog, or know me personally, will know that I am a Polytheist. Perhaps not as hard a one as I used to be, and I’ve always been pretty soft around the edges, but a Polytheist none-the-less even though my understanding of ‘deity’ has drastically changed. As Peter J Carroll observed, “It is man who creates gods not vice versa”. I have reassessed my personal beliefs, and have stepped outside of my comfort zone in order to grow; to trace (or perhaps retrace) a path that has opened up in front of me. I have set out on a journey which seems to have been waiting for me as long as I can remember. A pull here. A nudge there. A reopening of old links. A reconnection. Descending into the heart of Darkness to where ancient knowledge and enlightenment lay, to carve away the layers of my Self and release the Divine Spark within, which mankind has ceased to remember. Fueled by my hopes and desires, and by dancing through dreams in which flitter the deepest of visions. I am deliciously entranced by its choreography, which weaves and wefts its way on its lunar current. It makes my heart race. I am excited by it. I am scared by it.

After years he began to call the slow sailing stars by name, and to follow them in fancy when they glided regretfully out of sight; till at length his vision opened to many secret vistas whose existence no common eye suspected. And one night a mighty gulf was bridged, and the dream haunted skies swelled down to the lonely watcher’s window to merge with the close air of his room and to make him a part of their fabulous wonder. There came to that room wild streams of violet midnight glittering with dust of gold, vortices of dust and fire, swirling out of the ultimate spaces and heavy perfumes from beyond the worlds. Opiate oceans poured there, litten by suns that the eye may never behold and having in their whirlpools strange dolphins and sea-nymphs of unrememberable depths. Noiseless infinity eddied around the dreamer and wafted him away without touching the body that leaned stiffly from the lonely window; and for days not counted in men’s calendars the tides of far spheres that bore him gently to join the course of other cycles that tenderly left him sleeping on a green sunrise shore; a green shore fragrant with lotus blossoms and starred by red camalotes.


Text – Sarah-Jayne Farrer

“The Indwelling Fire” & “Di Inferi” © Matt Baldwin-Ives (http://milescross.co.uk/)

“Via Sinistra” © Sarah-Jayne Farrer

Excerpts throughout – Azathoth by H.P. Lovecraft

Burnham Beeches: The Whispering Woods

Posted by Sarah-Jayne Farrer on


There is always a reason you are called to a specific landscape at a certain time, and the call to Burnham Beeches has been insistent ever since my return to Old Blighty, where if you are still and quiet you may be able to hear the message whispered upon the breeze. It’s been a while since we at ‘In the Chimehours’ have posted, but my feet are now firmly settled back on English soil and I’m ready to write! Actually, since returning home (and sticking my feet deep into the rich, ancient soil upon which I have spilt my blood, sweat and tears), there has been a slight shift in focus. I’m sure you will notice the difference in the material well be posting in upcoming articles, but for now we head back to the Whispering Woods of Burnham…

These woods have held me in thrall and deep admiration since I was my son’s age, and I once again found myself wandering amongst veteran pollarded Beech and Oak a few weekends ago. The distinctive shapes caused by the upper branches of these trees being allowed to grow when pollarding ceased about 200 years ago happens to be one of my longest standing memories of this place, and one of the forest’s well-loved features. These trees are the survivors from centuries ago when this area was mainly wood pasture, and what lends to the impact of this unique place.

Upon entering the ancient forest, one which once covered most of Buckinghamshire, Berkshire (the county Burnham was originally located in before the county borders were moved) and North Hampshire, the first thing you notice is the stillness. Crackling branches and crushed leaves underfoot are at times the only things that break that unreal silence, other times it is the whispering, the murmuring which builds in the deep dark places.  A silence that fills the air thickly, not an empty silence, but one with a presence. A very strong presence. For a woodland which is now an oasis of calm surrounded by modern day life, and minutes from the M25, it always takes the unsuspecting by surprise, but memories came flooding back as soon as my feet fell softly upon the damp, sun-dappled floor.

It has been quite a few years since I was here last, and I made the most of the time I had wandering the truly diverse landscape of ancient woodland, wood pasture, deep ponds and glistening streams. You may, if you are lucky even spot the occasional Adder slithering through the grasslands. The acidic heathland populated by Heathers, Heath Milkwort, Betony, Gorse, Broom and old Junipers, lead into mire and bog. These damper areas contain a number of species of Bog Moss, Water Mint, the delicate Marsh Violet, Wood Club-rush, Wood horsetail, Water-lilies, the Yellow Iris, and Bog Bean that is beautiful when in flower. The woods themselves at certain times of year are littered with Bluebells, Woodruff, Wood Anemone, and rings of  Amanita Muscaria. In the Summer when the shade and shadows beneath the trees are at their deepest, tiny white flowers appear to litter the forest floor where nothing else blooms: the evocatively named Enchanter’s Nightshade (the Circaea is not a member of the Nightshade family, Solanaceae, but was named after enchantress Circe who was supposed to have used enchanter’s nightshade in her magic), which was once called Aelfthone by the Anglo-Saxons and was used in charms against the wily ways of Elves.

The Fleet Wood and New Coppice are another two areas that draw me back time and time again. These areas were taken from the common land and made into Coppice Woods. Coppiced trees are those that are cut at ground level to produce regular crops of straight branches. These straight branches were used in a manner of ways, but are very handy if you require a stang of hazel, oak or beech. I don’t always use a straight stang myself, my favourite ‘riding pole’ is fantastically crooked and twisted – A little serpentine to say the least.

Lost in a reverie, I was startled by the cawing of a Crow just a few feet away from where I was standing. The filtered sunlight catching on it’s dark feathers, reflecting tones of emerald and sapphire, as it cocked it’s head my way, hopped a few paces deeper into the woods and paused on the roots of an old Beech tree. I had gained a companion for the day, as it seemed wherever I strolled that darkly jeweled beauty wasn’t far away.

The Beech’s snake-like roots speak of wisdom and rebirth, but to be reborn one must first die. Crossing thresholds can be a daunting challenge, rife with uncertainty and change. It’s always easier for us to stay with what we know, that comforting familiarity with ‘the way things are’, but to crawl out of our stagnant situations we must confront our fears head on, be willing to step out of our comfort zones and take a leap of faith. Not every question can be answered straight away, nor every step accounted for and planned meticulously. The Beech speaks of using the ancient knowledge as revealed through dreams, vision, old objects and the wild places to gain insight about the future, and to provide a measure of protection when stepping into new territory. Beechwood has been placed in pockets of travelers for luck and protection on roads unknown for many a century.

When growing so near to the Hazel it speaks of rising beyond the personal limitations we have set for ourselves. It reminds us that nothing is impossible, even if we may not see a clear path to where we desire to be. There is a piece of folklore I learned many moons ago whilst wandering beneath these same pollarded Oak and Beech. I was told by a man who had storytelling in his blood that the Beech was once widely known as ‘The Wishing Tree’. Rods, representing wishes, were tied to its branches, and the breeze would carry them away to be fulfilled when the time was right. Or that if one has a need or a want you should inscribe your wish onto a sliver of Beech wood, or a fallen branch, and push it into the ground. Your desire is then carried swiftly by the hands of Fagus into the deep, the Underworld, for the consideration of the Queen of Elphame herself. These wishes were granted more often than not, but not in the way one would expect. Oft times men and women were left wishing they had never made their initial wish to begin with, and therein lies the simple advice: “Be careful what you wish for, you might just get it.”

The jeweled Crow soared from the Beech within the forest, across the clearing, and came to rest upon a mighty Oak. The wind changed and a new set of whispers were carried upon the breeze. He whispers of patience, endurance and strength. He speaks of weathering storms, of standing fast, of traveling deep and holding tight. Thick, intricately carved doors bar the way, His wood heavy and solid against the hands, it does not ‘give’ like some other woods. It has braved lightning strikes and many a storm, yet still stands strong. The strength we need to open this gate is not brute strength, as nothing will budge these doors unless they themselves want to open for you. If you listen closely and have patience, like the acorn we can achieve much from such humble beginnings, you may be granted the password and permission to enter. What you will receive on the Otherside no one can say. The Land will give you what you need, not necessarily what you want, when you need it the most; if you approach the Land with reverence and respect.

Burnham Beeches has been used as a site for Witchcraft for many a year.

Here, deep within the forest the Old Ones still linger. Watching. The forgotten gates, hidden and barred,  lay in wait for those who have gained the keys to enter; those who would become their guardians, and restore them to their former glory. Altars of years gone by, lost within the gloom of the sands of time,  await their rediscovery. The hair will rise all over your body, skin set a-tingling, as the watchful gaze of familiar eyes are felt. Ancient eyes. The air will thicken and murmuring will be heard from all directions and none, as dark figures meander at the edges of your vision. The head flares. The shadows lurk here. They dance around the long-dead tree, course and careen amongst the haunted Bluebells where the wise would only tip-toe or enter not at all, flitting from tree to tree, from shade to shade. Waiting and watching for an offering.  An offering cast deep.

When monks, by holy church well schooled,
Were lawyers, statesmen, leeches.
Cured souls and bodies, judged or ruled,
Then flourished Burnham beeches,

Skirting the convent’s walls of yore,
As yonder ruin teaches.
But shaven crown and cowl no more
Shall darken Burnham beeches.

Here bards have mused, here lovers true
Have dealt in softest speeches.
While Sun’s decline and parting, threw
Their gold o’er Burnham beeches.

O, ne’er may woodman’s axe resound.
Nor tempest making breaches.
In the sweet shade that cools the ground
Beneath our Burnham beeches.

- Excerpt from “Burnham Beeches” by Henry Luttrell


Text – Sarah-Jayne Farrer

“The Offering” © Sarah-Jayne Farrer & Matt Baldwin-Ives

All Other Images © Matt Baldwin-Ives (www.milescross.co.uk)

Sea Witchery: The Ebb and Flow of a Most Ancient Arte

Posted by Sarah-Jayne Farrer on

Someone many years ago, who expressed themselves by tongue of wisdom and fire, told me that if a person afflicted by illness and dark demeanor wished to release themselves from these maladies, they could do no better than immerse themselves beneath the Ocean waves. Submersion just as the dawn Sun peaked over the distant horizon was best, and one must remain beneath the cold dark waters for the passing of nine waves to be cured.

Healing waters from the nine, be it wave, spring, stream or Holy Well, permeates the ancient and enduring folklore of the British Isles, and many have gathered at sacred date and liminal time to draw healing power and sustenance from the waters of the living landscape.

It is also said that those suffering from mental ill health (from mild depression to overt psychosis) would be taken by family at the midnight hour to the edge of Loch Mo Naire in Strathnaver, Scotland. Under the cold Moon and stars they would be stripped naked, and after many grueling and frozen hours, they would be immersed in the icy waters of the Loch at first light. Loved ones and invited onlookers would throw coins into the water, by way of payment for the aid in the healing of these poor wretches. Pulled out sharply from these bitterly cold waters, and no doubt suffering from hypothermia, they would then be marched Sun-wise around the perimeter of the Loch, many miles in fact, and instructed not to turn their heads until the water was clear out of sight, and the morning Sun had fully risen.

And so I found myself, standing upon that desolate shore with the raging ocean stretching out in front of me, as far as my eye could see. Even now, I clearly remember just how it felt for the insistent wind to whip and pull my hair into a tangled mess, and how the salt air made my eyes sting as I gazed out onto the horizon, lost in deep emotion and memories. Strong reason and purpose had paved my way to this place, a moment that had been calling me for years and demanded careful planning over many thoughtful months. I had taken a preliminary look around the coastline to make sure that I was alone and would not be disturbed by others, knowing full well that the hour and location should dissuade the casual visitor. If anyone was to be present, then undoubtedly my best laid plans would surely fail.

From a moderately warm evening, the temperature plummeted as I neared the rocky shoreline and goosebumps arose upon my cooling skin. First went the sandals, kicked off into the darkness, and then my dress slipped away, falling onto the wet sands. A spontaneous string of obscenities escaped my lips, enough to startle the Saints, as I stepped into the chilling water (It was bloody cold!). Taking a few gasping moments to acclimatize (I wasn’t going to let a little thing like freezing cold water stop me, was I?), I stepped further into the frigid water, waves now falling hard against my legs, threatening to take them from beneath me well before my body would become accustomed to the shock of my new environment.

Violent shivering joined third degree goosebumps, which now covered my quivering frame from head to toe, as I waded forward and away from the shore, deeper still into cooler and stronger currents. Now the waves lapped against my stomach and breasts, splashing against my neck and face. Numbness dictated my next move and taking the deepest breath, I plunged myself beneath the dark waves.

Turbulent black waters enfolded me, embraced me, as I dove deeper into the gloom. My family often remarked that as a child, I swam as well as my Grandfather, who was renowned for his sea legs and his capacity to avoid drowning in difficult waters. Not often does one get the opportunity to challenge the boastings of our proud parents, so in this moment I was handing all over to my fate and to my genetic blood ties; an appointment with my Ancestors in fact.

Holding myself below the waves until the ninth had washed over me, I violently broke the surface of the water with a sharp breath, desperately filling my lungs, and uttering a deep sigh of relief and elation.

That was it.

All that I had ventured here for in the first place.

Against all of the rules, the clock had been re-set.

I swam further out into the frothy waves and after a while, whilst treading water, I let forth a wail. A wail that became a mournfully low sound of utter sorrow and sadness; the shattering tone of age-old guilt, and painful experience, escaping my mortal frame through my salt ravaged lips. To this day I really don’t know where that note came from; its resonance seems never-ending and still reverberates deeply. It was if the sound was torn out of me and cast across the Sea, rising in pitch and fed by a deep seated pain and burning anger, not mine, but something we all partake of as we cross these thresholds.

Not my voice and no longer my own emotions, more than I could possibly bear or contain, followed then by the crushing silence of the Bitter Sea. My whole world, all that I am, fell into utter silence. All ceased and my awareness, like the eternal flow of the tide, began to slowly draw back.

The tears flowed freely then, as the waves lulled me. I can remember how that silence broke, suddenly, and then the roar of the ocean came crashing back. The message had been taken upon and beneath the waves. My call was surely heard. Where my Rite ceased, my real work had now begun.

I’ve always had an affinity with Water, in all its forms and manifestations, but this experience is what really kicked off my love affair with the Sea, and I have been weaving folk/Sea lore, angling lore and superstitions picked up from the coastal regions throughout England and Scotland into my personal Witchery since.

In subsequent years I have returned to that coastline and have visited many others, wandering aimlessly along the beaches, weaving force & form while singing the old songs, and dancing wildly with the raging flames and flickering firelight upon the midnight shores.
Always lost in thought and deliciously entranced by the lapping of tide on shoreline, eyes fixed upon the shadow line where they entwine as one. No longer truly visible as separate states, but suspended and conjoined by the dark mist in-between, the place of dark dreaming, far memory and deepest vision of our future past and temporal becoming.

The Kent coast is indeed a wonderful place to find Cuttlefish bones, and I have vivid childhood memories of combing the beaches at Romney, filling my bucket with these treasures. Years later I would find myself using Cuttlefish bones for a different purpose entirely; drawing arcane sigils upon the sands beneath the Sun, Moon & Stars while forging, binding and breaking pacts with the enduring Spirits of Earth, Wave and Wind. Promises and wishes alike, cast like the wave skimming stones. Knotting, cutting and re-tying hempen cord and linen strips, often discovered bleached and Sun-dried upon the shoreline; gifts from the Sea.

There is a dizzying amount of Sea lore from the British Isles, and to cover it all in a single article would be a Fool’s errand, so here I wanted to just give a few snippets, some impressions of this volume filling subject.

The Sea Witches of the Scottish, Cornish and Sussex coast would literally ‘Sell the Wind’ to superstitious Sailors by means of a triune knotted rope. Purposefully untying the first knot would unleash a fine breeze, releasing the second knot would summon a high wind, and letting the third knot loose would invoke the fiercest of gales. Throughout history, Ancient Mariners have also been known to be able to ‘Whistle for the Wind’, a skill perhaps taught by the Sea Witches of antiquity. This form of magical practice relies upon direct action from the Seafarer, and constitutes a dynamic invocation to ‘The Prince of the Powers of Air’ to exert himself on their behalf.

What gales are sold on Lapland’s shore,
How whistle rash bids tempests roar,
Of witch, of mermaid, and of sprite,
Of Erick’s cap and Elmo s light;
Or of that Phantom Ship, whose form
Shoots like a meteor through the storm;
When the dark scud comes driving hard,
And lower’d is every topsail-yard,
And canvas, wove in earthly looms,
No more to brave the storm presumes!
‘Rokeby’ – (Sir Walter Scott)

The summoning of spiritual intervention while at Sea was regarded by most sailors as a risk laden and highly treacherous last resort, only ever to be used in times of dire need, when there was little or no wind at all, to fill the sails of their motionless vessels. It was held in firm belief by the Mariners, that any foolish captain who whistled without genuine need for Unseen assistance would call forth ill winds, often leading to swift horrific storms, that would quickly ravage their vessels, taking ship and crew to the Ocean bed in a violent and cataclysmic manner. Triangular fish bones, much the shape of ‘Thor’s Hammer’, were amongst a fisherman’s most prized possessions, being regarded as a good charm for safe traveling and to protect against thunder, lightning and squalls, affording such a measure of protection as he should ever he need to ‘Whistle the Wind’.

Invocations to the Saints, regional Spirits of the Sea and the winds, or even the Devil himself, were employed by the Sea Witches and the Ocean bound sailors. For good or ill, it was recorded that a Sea Witch from Trotternish called forth a gale so fierce, that it capsized a boat and drowned her intended victim.

“Gaoth tuath bho ifrinn fhuair,
a thionnd’as am muir ri aon uair,
A Chonnain, cuir ‘na deaghaidh,
‘na sradan tein’ on teinntean”

Uttered she: calling upon St. Conan to bring a “North wind from cold hell, that in one hour, drives the sea upwards from the bottom” and for him to “push it on in sparks of fire, as from the hearth”**

An angling superstition I particularly like (and I promise it’s not just for the Whisky) is the custom in Scotland of beginning new fishing nets (and repairing older ones) when the tide is rising, to bring good luck, bounty and abundance towards them. This work had to be completed without any interruptions, and once done Whisky would be drunk to assure even more good luck! I have incorporated this into my own personal esoteric practice, and so when beginning any new venture or rite beside the Sea, I wait for the tide to rise, carry out my work and heartily drink my Whisky; pouring some into the water as an offering on conclusion of the work.

Once my observances and rites have been carried out there is a form of divination I was told of by an old lady, who lived on the Sussex coast, to ‘check its outcome’. A bowl of sea water should be set in the sand, and if the light of the rising sun ripples and glimmers on the surface of the water it will take a while for your working to come to fulfillment. If the light is steady, then the change has already set in place, and you will see the labours of your work soon.

This practice is very reminiscent of the Easter Day custom held by the Marsh men of Lincolnshire. The ‘ Wading of the Sun’ was carried out to divine the weather for the coming season. As the Sun rises on Easter Day, a bucket of water was placed out to catch the earliest rays. If the Sun ‘waps and wades’, the season would be wet; but if steady, a fine Summer was surely around the corner.

The Art and practice of scrying has evolved and honed by genuine Witches and Magicians down the ages, often employing different regional methods that bear root similarities. Methods that I have used in my own practice have predominantly focused upon bodies of water; still lakes, dewponds or hand held dark bowls of liquid taken from specific Holy sources, the Ocean being one (an approach favored by the famous seer, Michael Nostradamus). Please remember though, as with water from Holy Wells and Sacred Springs, a portion of whatever you take should be given back in a respectful manner, to honour the Spirits that have assisted you in your work.

Throughout Old England, another object that has been commonly used for the purpose of scrying, which stems from the fishing communities that has for centuries, scraped a meager living from the sea, is the simple coloured glass fishing-float. Often known as ‘Witch Balls’ and used by Sea Witches in the same manner as the ‘crystal ball’. These green and blue spheres can often be viewed hung up in the windows of the small fishing cottages, in belief that they protect dwellings and owners from Witchcraft, the Evil Eye and other hostile occult influences.

For myself, I much prefer to employ fishing floats that I know have been used at Sea in the past, and you can come across these in antique stores along the coast in most parts of Britain. Ones found more recently online are generally replicas and have never even had a whiff of the sea breeze, let alone been submerged in the water.

A public house I once managed on the banks of the Thames, was converted from two fishermen’s cottages, and the three fishing floats that hung in the downstairs windows were found during the buildings conversion and renovation. Many a-night after the punters had left, and all was wrapped up, you would find me sitting alone with one of them; usually the deep sea green one, as it reminded me very much of one I had formally owned, and lost upon the way (as these things tend to do).

It is  mentioned above that you should always give back a portion of whatever water you take for your rites, but equally, you should also pay for anything you reap from the Sea too. It’s long been held by fishermen, that it was vital to offer payment to the Sea Gods and Spirits for the fish that their Oceans yielded during the fishing trips. Silver coins were inserted into the cork floats of the fishing nets, and if by chance any coins were to fall out it into the waters, then it was considered that the payment had been accepted and taken beneath the waves. If the coins remained it was said that the Gods had no need of money or payment and were appeased by the offer alone. Your payment or gift needn’t be coins, but some sort of exchange is necessary, and better if the item has a great meaning to you, as your sacrifice will surely be appreciated.

…And now after all that has been spoken of, I hear the call of the distant Sea once more, only greater than I ever have before… Its magnetic pull upon my body and soul is persistently fierce now, and the bitter Sea requires my presence… I yearn to smell the iodine in the Bladderwrack, feel the wet sand between my toes, taste salt upon my tongue… My primal Mother, the great leveler, calls and I must listen and respond… For she is Mother Moisture, willing vessel to the ice-cold burning Moonlight… She, whose tongue will tear at the land until it falls…

Great Queen of Primal Life that emerged from the dark, vast depths in the very beginning, hear the cries of your Daughter once more… I hear you and cannot resist your devastating power…


**See John Gregorson Campbell’s ‘The Gaelic Otherworld’ for more information about St.Conan and his link with the Devil.

Text – Sarah-Jayne Farrer & Matt Baldwin-Ives

Images © Matt Baldwin-Ives (www.milescross.co.uk)

The Secret Commonwealth

Posted by Sarah-Jayne Farrer on

“Yesterday upon the stair
I met a man who wasn’t there
He wasn’t there again today
Oh, how I wish he’d go away
When I came home last night at three
The man was waiting there for me
But when I looked around the hall
I couldn’t see him there at all!”
~ Antigonish (Mearns, 1899)

“By late noon, as the shadows lengthened and then withdrew quickly across the blue hearth stone, the noises commenced again at this remote and surely cursed relic of an abode. As on previous occasions, it starts with the clicking and then chirping. An incessant and anxiety inducing sound, unlike anything my inner aural library recognised or indeed comprehended…” - April 28th

To the reckoning of most, we are all ultimately alone in this world; but the Witch knows different. We are never truly alone. We are constantly surrounded by our spirits or gods, bugged by our ‘Muses’ and the extremely lucky ones can find a part of their missing soul hidden within another; but even if not, we all have our Otherselves. Witch or no.

Throughout the British Isles, especially in Ireland and Scotland, there is much talk of the Faerie Co-Walker, the Otherself; which has been known throughout the years, and presently, under many names. Doubles, Fetches, or Wraiths are believed to be the ‘attending spirit’ of the living person, and oft times considered a guardian spirit – Usually ancestral.

“Now as the light and warmth quickly diminish from this valley, I perceive the barely audible but pure whistle-like tone they emit on approach to our world. Of course, as time and age take me, I am now beginning to wonder just what distance actually separates us. Surely not enough. In years past, I was informed in a most serious manner, by the people who taught me the ancient art, that these beings or creatures had been (and perhaps still were) the procurers of potent ointments and salves to the Witches of antiquity. My mentor assured me that by carrying church blessed water and the sharpest cold iron I could find, they may just leave me be; due to their inherent fear and contempt for such substances…” - April 28th

The knowledge of these creatures, these Co-Walkers, has been around for centuries. The Greeks had their agathodaemones and kakodaemones which attached to men, swaying their decisions to one side or the other. Socrates would take counsel and guidance from his daemon. The Romans had their genii. And in Northern tradition they had their fylgja (someone that accompanies). It was believed that everyone inherited an hereditary guardian spirit at birth, which held their ancestral wyrd in their grasp, their ancestral inheritance and their luck.

These Co-Walkers, or Fetches, are capable of traveling abroad from the body of whomever they are attending. There is a massive amount of folklore and Witchlore pertaining to this, and most already know of the Witchs’ Familiar, sent forth from their blood and bone counterpart to do their bidding, sometimes in ‘true form’, sometimes that of an animal.

“Feather light and mutable are their forms, ever shifting and changeable, not unlike the cool morning mists that rise above the nearby fens and marshes. Yes, icy cold, like frozen breath in the darkness of the deepest Winter’s night. These vaporous Chameleons have a keen thirst for fine liquor, accompanied by a ravenous hunger for the farmer’s grain and corn. Only the essence mind you, for they quickly discard the husks and gross matter, finding this wholly unpalatable…” - April 28th

But it isn’t all sweetness and light and happy families.

The word ‘Fetch’ may derive from fæcce in Old English, which is glossed for mære; a spirit associated with death and nightmares. It is believed to see one’s Fetch is an omen of impending death, for the body has ‘given up its ghost’, and this is very true, my friends. There will be death. A death to the way you see the world, a death to your way of thinking, a death to all you once believed to be true, and yes, sometimes actual, physical death. For something which has been seen, cannot be un-seen. Once you have stared into the Unseen, and the Unseen has stared back into you, you are forever changed. Not quite the person you once were.

Striving for full awareness of your Faerie Co-Walker, is a dangerous path to walk. I’m not talking here about the dainty, gossamer-winged creatures of Victorian fancy. I am talking about the primal, ancient beings that would steal your baby from it’s crib, lure you to your doom in the fog, forests or wetlands, the powerful subterranean-dwellers who live according to their own laws, that can (and will) rip your face off. I jest you not. These beings should be approached with the utmost care, diligence and respect; a healthy dose of fear would not go amiss either. As a misstep could cost you your sanity, or your life.

“My patrons, both present and past (and undoubtedly, future) met with them at the midnight hour. Out on the dark lonely highways, deep in the hollows, the caves and at the cursed and unholy crossroads; the lonely thresholds that were once home to the gallows and the deep buried carcasses of vagrants, vagabonds, harlots and murderers. My teachers thought more of these places than God’s own churches; and when winds and stars were right, would exchange tokens, make pacts and renew ancient covenants with these strange and fearful folk…” - April 29th

As Witches we take calculated risks, nothing should be approached lightly or on a whim, especially when dealing with these beings. Think of the stories you have heard. Think of all the age old charms to protect against Faeries and the like; their origins are not based in fantasy, but on a very serious need to be cautious. Take heed and protect yourself from these hungry ghosts, the shadows and reflections of our long lost past

Some will never attain full awareness of their Co-Walker, most will never want to, and can be content with a contact of sorts with this Otherself. “If invited and earnestly required, these companions make themselves known and familiar to men”*. This contact can take years to build, but can be increased at certain times, in certain places, especially at ancient sites of cultural heritage. Out beneath the turbulent skies, on wind-whipped moors, surrounded by the unparalleled natural beauty and danger of the wetlands, amongst the haunted hills and vales, deep within the dark forests carpeted with bluebells, or upon the ancient mounds of our Ancestors – The places the dead lie (human, and animal) can become an interaction point between our realm and theirs.

“From my own observation, research and most importantly direct contact, I have to conclude that the nature of these beings reside somewhere between Angel and Flesh-bound Man. I have witnessed them on successive nights moving to and from their dark and hollow hills, while the land seethes and spits the cold fire that lights their way. In horror, I have quietly followed them down from the hills as they descend into our villages and towns to mingle, mimic, manipulate, and on occasion murder the unsuspecting towns folk. They covertly steal the trinkets we surround ourselves with, and if the truth be heard, would steal the first breath from the newborns lips (if the proper wards and sigils were not in place). I have been forced to consider that far beyond their chaotic whistle and chatter, they are as one. A collective, united in serving a single unknown and unseen power. Their faith, politics, learning and motivations are way beyond our reason and understanding. Some nights I hear music and merrymaking from beneath the hills, and have been told that the lanterns they dance beneath bear no wick or tallow, having shone since the land was young…” - April 29th

These creatures are cunning, and ready to catch you out. I’m sure you have all heard of ‘Faerie Trickery’, but their playfulness is not unlike our malice, their games can be cruel, their presence painful, their sport can be what our nightmares are made of. So be prepared on your journeys to meet with them; if you still wish to make the contact that is. They will demand a lot from you, sometimes more than you are prepared to give (and they will take by force what you do not give willingly), and in return you will see very little at first, maybe ever. Their thoughts on exchange don’t always meet our own, and in their minds they may have already bestowed great bounty upon you just by revealing their presence.

Do not be fooled that you ever have the upper hand with these beings, no matter how many times you convene, for they can surely cut you down a peg or two. And cut you down they will. Humility will be one of your greatest allies against this fierce race, and can afford you a measure of protection, however slight that may be. Older than the ancient hills they abide within and beneath, they have seen many ages come and go. Yet, they remain. Steadfast and attached to the Land. And part of it. Waiting and ready. Ready for what?

“Tired am I, of the summoning. The sonorous crooning of old songs to the snapping of ash wand, and forceful tearing of bud and stem; just to be battered and thrown around like an abused rag doll when they rush in from the four corners of the world. Their spitting and threatening no longer brings the overwhelming rush of exhilaration I once felt. I carry the unseen scars of their weapons; the century seasoned wooden sword, the hammers of bone from creatures long past, and their tiny barbed stone arrows, which are forcefully unleashed upon us from the darkness. Weapons that inflict illness and melancholy upon their clueless victims, sometimes death to the weaker and more vulnerable, and no one is the wiser (apart from those who are truly wise and dearly wish they were not, as wisdom seldom brings a peaceful mind)…

But upon this very night, I solemnly prepare myself to meet with them once again (perhaps for the last time), to uphold our part of the bargain and join with them in convocation within this desolate, haunted ruin. This is the legacy my patrons have entrusted to me, to tremble and weep once more, within the ice cold darkness that will soon descend upon this place. To further let go, and lose a part of my humanity, a fragment of warmth from my immortal soul, perhaps to fuel their obscene lanterns, and in return for what?” - April 30th

Text – Sarah-Jayne Farrer & Matt Baldwin-Ives

‘The Co-Walker’ © Ian Thurlby & Matt Baldwin-Ives (www.milescross.co.uk)

All other images © Matt Baldwin-Ives

Diary Extracts - with kind permission from the owner

* Robert Kirk – The Secret Commonwealth: of Elves, Fauns, and Fairies (1691)

Ancient Yew and Humps of the Devil…

Posted by Sarah-Jayne Farrer on

“A thousand charms now open on the view,
O’er which enchanted roves the wanderer’s eye
With ever-fresh delight. In stainless, blue
Immensity above extends the sky : —
Below, in richest harmony, each dye
Of varied green is blended to adorn
This solitary vale, that seems to lie
Lovely as Eden on Creation’s morn,
Ere nature knew decay — ere pain and grief were born”

Some pretty long-standing memories have been forged upon the South Downs of England. Some meaningful, some not, some spiritual, some filled with laughter, others with tears, some with sheer terror, others with joy, and one particular night’s happenings (when but a delicate 16 year old) will forever be engraved in my mind, and burned onto my retinas. It is a place very close to my heart. A place where I feel instantly at home.

From it’s iconic, and dramatic chalky white cliffs on the East Sussex coast, to the beautiful and evocative western Weald of Hampshire and West Sussex. I must say I think I had, possibly, one of the best pints of real ale at the ‘The Shepherd & Dog’, just outside the village of Fulking (not far from the Devil’s Dyke), that I have ever had in my life. That may have something to do with the fatigue and weariness from trekking across the Downs from Sun rise to Sun set. There is nothing like a great pint or two, over some pub grub and deep belly laughs, to really put the spring back in your step after a long, exhausting, but exhilarating day.

The historic village of Slindon on the Southern slopes of the South Downs, the towns of Arundel, Lewes, Winchester, and Chichester, the stretch of the Seven Sisters of the Eastern coast, the impressive Blackdown, and the Chanctonbury Hill & dew pond; are all places that have a firm hold on my heart and soul. Local legend has it that the Devil himself created the Chanctonbury Ring, and that one may summon him by running around the clump of trees seven times anti-clockwise; which links in with the place I’m going to be talking about today.

North-west of Chichester there is an ancient, magnificently dark and somber, Yew forest covering two hundred acres within a narrow coombe. The bark of the oldest trees takes on a molten-like look. Very anthropomorphic. The forms of the faces, arms and hands, parts and pieces of those who have been laid to rest beneath the shelter of their poisonous branches, can be seen in their knarled, twisting trunks. Newer trees wrap around the dead Yew inside; writhing and entangling around the original, until they are no longer distinguished as different trees, but one. Growing and dying, and living again. Together. Over and Over.

This place is hushed. An eerie silence and dimness enfold you as you walk between these ancient trees. Even on a bright sunny day, the thick canopy blocks out the Sun; dappled light hits the damp floor, died red by fallen berries. On a hot day the vapours rise from the trees, and an altered state is imminent. The toxins within the Yew are released in the heat, and if you sit meditating in this grove on such a day they can bring forth some pretty in-depth trance states; due to the mild narcotic and hallucinogenic effects these vapours produce. I take moment here to warn of the extent of the poison of this tree. Even meditating on hot days, at length, can induce an overdose. So, it’s always handy to have someone with experience to watch over you, just in case, but with care it’s a very useful and powerful place for a seer to meditate.

It’s easy to get lost within the Kingley Vale forest, even without the hallucinogenic effects. The trees arn’t where you remember them to be, and paths don’t take you where you thought they would. This site has been used for Witchcraft for many a moon, and somewhere within these woods stands a single sacrificial Oak.

“Come, Meditation! Stray awhile with me,
The scene will suit us well, for we may muse
On themes we long have cherish’d secretly,
Within yon grove of venerable yews;
Whose twilight gloom and silence may infuse
Into our dream, perchance, that pensive joy
Which philosophic Melancholy woos
Amid such scenes, whose beauties never cloy ;
But yield to Taste and Virtue bliss without alloy”


Deep beneath their sacred canopy, the atmosphere thick and grim, you can truly understand why the Yew is used in workings and ritual involving the Ancestors, communing with the spirits of the Dead, ceremonies of remembrance, Necromancy, and the Otherworld. The Yew is the Gatekeeper to the Shadow Lands. She is an Ancient Matriarch which holds many stories beneath her bark. Sitting amongst Her serpentine roots, with ears to listen, she might tell you a few. Of the inspiration of death. Of the beauty in decay. Of the power to renew and transform through total surrender. Beautifully haunting tales will bleed forth from Her, tales that will make your heart ache so bad you fear it might break. Physically break. Tales that will make your soul sing. Tales that will linger with you forever. You never return from a journey with the Yew in quite the same way as you were before you left.

According to 9th Century manuscripts, a group of Vikings invaded the countryside around what is now Chichester; however the Vikings weren’t expecting a revolt by the Anglo-Saxons. They turned on their pursuers, and a huge battle commenced, in which hundreds were killed. The wood is believed to be the location of this battle; onto the ground where the slain fell, a grove of sixty trees was planted as a memorial. The ghosts of these fallen warriors are said to wander beneath their boughs at night. They arn’t the only things that wander once the Sun sinks below the horizon, as legend has it the trees also come alive and walk the coombe. This sets cold shivers down the spine when you are amongst these trees at night. Truly lost. In the pitch blackness you look for trees you had seen earlier on in the day, that have seemed to have disappeared, or are further down the path than you expected. A very haunted and powerful place to be sure, almost threatening at times.

“Fierce was the conflict, as old legends say,
And fearfully re-echoed through the dell,
Mid the wild uproar of the battle-fray,
The Briton’s shout, the Sea-Kings’ fiendish yell, —
And of the mighty Northmen many fell,
Whose bold hearts’ blood distain’d the verdant ground ;
And few return’d the daring deeds to tell
Of Cissa’s gallant sons, who that day, crown’d
With glory’s wreaths, made hill and dale with joy resound”


The special chalk grasslands of Kingley Vale have developed over thousands of years and support a wide variety of flora and fauna. The grassland is grazed upon by fallow and roe deer, wild rabbits and sheep (in the Winter) to prevent the coarse grasses and trees from stifling the growth of wildflowers. Wildflowers such as rock rose, wild thyme and marjoram, and the rare orchids which litter these meadows, including the common spotted, frog, bee and fly orchids. The Vale is also home to blackthorn, hawthorn, ash, elder, spindle, willow, birch, gorse and juniper. It is a wonderful place that has stolen the heart of many a poet, including Tennyson and Crocker.

There are a number of ancient remains in the area; earthworks, settlements, cross dykes, scattered long barrows and a couple of Iron Age hill forts. On a ridgeway crossed by an ancient trackway above the forest and the grasslands, stand four large Bronze Age barrows called ‘The Devil’s Humps’ or ‘The King’s Graves’ on the crest of Bow Hill. These kings were leaders of the Viking invasion wiped out by the Anglo-Saxon men of Chichester. It is said that the Vikings, or at least their leaders, lie in these barrows. The Yews of the forest are believed to be the descendants of the trees planted to mark the battlefield.

This is not really a place you want to be alone at night. I speak from personal experience, and I even had a friend just within earshot. I came to Kingley Vale emboldened by stories, and entertained fancy ideas of walking/running around the mounds six or seven times, to test the claims of the Devil coming to meet you. As the darkness cloaked the land, I began my journey around the burrows. I made it around a grand total of four times (nothing jumped out after the third, as some local legends claim), but the atmosphere changed on my forth trip. Not only did the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, but my whole body. The air thick. The night seemed to close in. The sky within reaching distance. Whispers were heard on the breeze. Shadows. Movement. Chills. Fear. I was not alone. The dead do indeed walk.

I have never again sat upon those burrows alone, and I cannot fully describe what happened in the hours that came next… Maybe I should try… But that, my friends, is a story for another time…

Text – Sarah-Jayne Farrer

Images © Matt Baldwin-Ives (www.milescross.co.uk)

* The Devil’s Humps: photograph by Brannon Masters with digital manipulations by Matt Baldwin-Ives.

** Poems excerpts from ‘Kingley Vale’ by Charles Crocker

COMPLETE KINGLEY VALE GALLERY: http://inthechimehours.com/the-gallery/kingley-vale-gallery/